This Is the Way the World Ends
by Konstantya
Summary: The Great War draws to a close. Austria learns that there are some things he simply cannot take in stride. -Edelweiss Arc.-


General Note: I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So if the formatting is weird, please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

This fic is a chapter of the Edelweiss arc, of which you can find more about in my profile.

Obligatory (but ultimately pointless) CYA: I don't own it.

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**This Is the Way the World Ends  
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They see the three Germanic nations together, one right after the other. A ceasefire has been declared, and the Allied and Central Powers have begun to work toward an armistice, and tentatively, official peace. Austria stands in pensive silence outside the French tent. Germany sits nearby, apparently giving the barren ground a thorough inspection.

Soon, Prussia emerges, puffs out a bitter laugh of a breath. "You're next, Specs."

Austria composes himself with dignified resignation. His steps are steady. His back, straight. He will not shame himself by acting weak, even in a tent full of enemies who have proven themselves stronger.

England looks worse for wear, but still official. France sits, leg propped, with a pair of crutches to the side of his make-shift chair, and seems to alternate between angry and self-satisfied. America—the new kid—has somehow become the de facto spokesman of the Allies, and more importantly, of peace. He radiates a strange sort of idealism that Austria finds both comforting and annoying. Then again, America has not been fighting this war as long as the rest of them have, and after all, _someone_ needs to have an optimistic outlook on the future, he supposes.

Others occupy the fringes of the tent. Russia, he notices, is absent, but that is no surprise.

America is all mediating business, and begins. "For sake of clarification, we understand you want peace."

"Yes," Austria says.

America nods, pushes his glasses up. "As I'm sure you're aware, quite a few nations in your house have been clamoring for independence."

Austria nods back, calmly. Bohemia has been raising quite a fuss, as has Croatia. And Poland, at this point, he would be glad to get rid of. (Austria is quite sick of returning to Vienna to find his foyer pink.)

America takes a brisk breath, clasps his hands behind his back. "You understand we plan to support them." It is not a question.

Austria breathes carefully due to a healing bullet wound in his side. He nods again. It was to be expected. His government is fairly in shambles. Reorder is necessary. If territorial losses mean an end to this godforsaken war, so be it. He has prepared himself for defeat, at this point, and will accept it with grace.

"We'll also be seeing to the separation of you and Hungary," he adds.

Austria blinks. "Separation?" he repeats, softly, his tongue almost tripping over the word.

France is smug. America is clueless. England is a bit more tactful, and a fellow empire besides, and for those reasons alone, Austria focuses his attention on him.

A random thought enters his head: For four hundred years, he has shared his house with her.

"Hungary," England begins carefully, "…has requested a divorce, so that she may also be an independent state. We only thought it fair, considering the support being given to the other nations under your joint rule."

It isn't fair at all, Austria thinks, numbly. It's true their relationship has suffered because of the war—their last couple meetings have ended in arguments—but that was what their marriage was for in the first place: They compromised and reconciled in 1867; they would compromise and reconcile in 1918.

For four hundred years, he has shared his house with her.

"The details'll be discussed in the treaties, obviously, but that's the way it's looking," America says.

Austria inhales, slowly. "I see," he murmurs, and wonders if he's lying.

He does not hear what America says next. He is barely aware of passing Germany on his way out, and is so disjointed, he actually settles right next to Prussia, who is leaning against some crates, smoking his irritation away.

For four hundred years, he has shared his house with her.

"So what's _your_ proposed execution?" Prussia asks. He sports wounds of his own, most notably a bandage around his head that obscures one eye.

Austria opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He tries again, but only a little bit of air pushes out of his throat. He goes to loosen the collar of his uniform, and his hands, he realizes, are shaking.

For four hundred years, he has shared his house with her.

"Well," Prussia says, looking back to the charred horizon. "I guess that settles it. You really did love her."

Austria jerks his eyes toward him, but the other nation's expression is uncharacteristically blank. Prussia digs in the inside of his jacket and offers a crumpled cigarette. Austria takes it because he has no idea what else to do.

"I—I don't smoke," he chokes out, just barely.

"Doesn't matter. It'll give you something to do with your hands besides wringing them." Even Prussia is too tired to put much effort into his insults, too tired to rage at their inevitable defeat. Austria can't even accept what that defeat means.

For four hundred years, he has shared his house with her.

Prussia hands him a lighter with feigned indifference. Austria holds the cigarette in one hand and fumbles unsuccessfully at the flint wheel with the other. His thumb refuses to work. His knees are on the verge of joining the strike.

For four hundred years, he has shared his house with her.

Prussia rolls his eyes. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Here," he says, and plucks the lighter from the other country's hand before he drops it. He takes the cigarette, practically shoves it between Austria's pale lips, and grudgingly does him the favor of lighting it.

"Breathe," he says, and for some insane reason, Austria thinks this a dandy idea, and does so.

He hacks smoke, coughs so badly he half-doubles over, and has just enough time to hiss at the pain in his wounded side before hacking again. Prussia laughs a mad, hoarse laugh at his expense, and Austria thinks, at least someone can find humor in this situation.

Out of what must surely be masochism, Austria tries inhaling smoke again, with much the same results. And a third time. He finds concentrating on suppressing his cough reflex is preferable to concentrating on future treaty terms. The unbearable taste of tobacco is preferable to the unbearable tightness in his chest.

For four hundred years, he has shared his house with her.

Austria takes a long, ragged drag, and manages only one little puff of a cough. "This is vile," he finally complains, but does not stop.

Prussia grins, and lights up another. A pile of ash and cigarette butts is growing slowly, but surely, around his feet. "Sure is."

Austria tilts his head back against the crates for support, and inhales, and exhales, and inhales, and exhales, until the cigarette is spent, and he gestures for another. This one he manages to light on his own.

For four hundred years, he has shared his house with her.

"Fuck," Prussia mutters.

Austria feels like dying, and breathes smoke as if it could kill him.

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It is almost a year later, in September of 1919, that Austria finds himself in the city of Saint-Germain-en-Laye to again meet with the Allies. A treaty has been drawn up. He was not consulted on the terms, and he has little choice but to agree to them. Austria cynically wonders why they even bother with the formality of asking him to sign it.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asks before reading. France looks mildly surprised by the question and then perhaps a little more lecherous than usual. England shrugs to indicate he doesn't care. America is not present.

He blames Prussia for the habit. Prussia lets him, even though they both know it isn't his fault, not really. The simple fact is, Austria blames almost everyone and everything these days. Including himself. Perhaps especially himself. Official responsibility has fallen on Germany's shoulders, but Austria cannot forget that it was _he_ who impetuously started the damned war that brought them all to this.

He has not spoken to Hungary.

He lights a cigarette with practiced ease. He finds he needs them now, to calm his nerves. Music, alone, is not quite enough anymore. The world has changed with this past war, and Austria has changed with it.

So it is official, then. He will now be the Federal State of Austria, dreary and inelegant as that sounds. His empire is gone, along with his wife, and he is fairly cursed to be independent—especially from Germany, who was kind enough to invite him to live in Berlin, so that he wouldn't have to be alone in Vienna. That is all there is to it.

Upon him reaching the last page, England prompts, "If you could just sign right there…" His demeanor is serious, but not altogether unkind.

Austria stubs his cigarette out and breathes a plume of smoke. "Yes," he simply says, and reaches for the pen. He hesitates, just for a moment, before forcing his hand to write the name that has been forced upon the rest of him. _Bundesstaat Österreich._ He sets the pen down and his ring finger—bare for months already—feels newly heavy with the absence of his wedding band.

Austria reaches into his jacket for another cigarette.

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Notes:

Four hundred years: I use the Battle of Mohács, (which took place in 1526) to mark the beginning of Hungary's tenure in Austria's house, first as his maid, and then later, as his wife.

Head-canon says Austria started smoking after WWI, and I got curious about the details. It's probably not as historically accurate as I generally like historical things to be, but hey, creative license once in a while. Also: I like bitter, broken-hearted Austria and tired, superficially-malicious Prussia. (Probably a little more than I should, poor things. XD)

Thanks for reading! Oh, and uh...Happy New Year? (Even though this fic is hardly befitting the optimism that comes with the new year? ^^')


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